Saturday, May 20, 2017

A myriad of poetry

School is over and I finally have an opportunity to write on here. I'm grateful that I was able to have another successful semester. I'm also grateful that I only have two more to go in order to finally gain my degree. Wow!! I can't believe it's actually going to happen. It only took what...10 years! Trust me, you aren't the only one that's judging me a little for taking so long to get a bachelors.

It is Saturday, which means that it's time for "writing day". I want to share with you a collection of the poems that I wrote for the final portfolio in my poetry class. There are 12 of them, so if you can't be bothered to read them all, that's perfectly understandable. It takes a person of great patience to make it through a large collection of poetry. The only premise for the portfolio was that it had to follow a time line, meaning that each poem had to build upon another. In my collection, I've tried to take the reader through the life cycle of a single narrator. It might seem that a different narrator is speaking as you progress in the piece, but it's the same one who is growing and learning about the world.

Enjoy!

Growing up

When I was
young I’d play
with shellfish and plankton
and whales.
They’d sing me their tunes
as I’d lie in bed, softly
listening while creating their ocean
from my eyes.

I knew their
language- I
tasted their skins. We became one
sort of being and it was fun.
Fun to dive into a life not my own,
exciting in fact, I’d go there to
feel at home.

The whale
was my mother,
the shellfish my friend.
The plankton was the dinner
that’d we chase until it was dead.
We’d dance around lava flumes,
they were our campfire, I’d stay
there until my brain got tired.

Blue
kazoo

I am five
years old
and I have my
first kazoo.
It is a deep
colour of plastic…
BLUE!!!
Blue is my
favorite colour and
this kazoo is now
my new favorite
thing!

My mom and
dad
would find no interest
in this pretty little object.
They’d just tell me to throw it away.
That is why I am five
and this blueberry flavored
noise-maker is my life.
It has to be blueberry!
Everything blue taste like
Blueberry!

It might
look weird,
with its long body
and hollowed out center,
but I promise that it does
not taste like daddy’s cigars.
I tried those once and they didn’t
taste like anything yummy.
This kazoo though,tastes just like the colour blue.
A blueberry tasting
instrument.
An instrument making
a pretty little noise.

But, what is
that noise?
Where is it coming from?
Is there a bug trapped inside
of my blueberry kazoo?
A buzzing bee trapped
at the top of my fruity noisemaker?
That has to be what’s
making the noise.
Inside that turny
wheel thing.
How can I get
that buzzer out?
I know!
I open the wheel!
The door to see this…
BEE!

Wait!
There’s no bee in here,
only a piece of thin paper.
But now I can’t put this
door back on.
It won’t close!
It’s not working now.
My blueberry flavored
blue kazoo is now gone.
And I am all alone!

Approval

They used to
call me young man.
I didn’t struggle to hold things.
I was strong. I was bold.
My youth caused people to
flock to me. They’d laugh
when I’d walk in.
I found that I had
strength in their laughter.
I’d put it in a cup and take it
in one shot.
I’d dilute the powder,
the fruit-punch color mixing
together until the cup was
a perfect color of blood-red.
I’d swallowed it down and leaveno drop.
The bitter taste was
like crab apples touching
my innocent tongue.
I kept drinking however,
until it was gone.

Three
thoughts in one poem

First

The catskin
garland
freshly hung
around the penguins window
with a rusty tack
smeared from the glaring.

Second

Hypocrisy!
Hypocrisy!
You prance in pudding
but demand I soar with cotton.

Third

Does your
cup depress,
like a bag full
of dirty laundry filled
with a sugar-coated heartburn
that’s empty like your soul?

Plead for
the humbling experience-
a breath, a sigh, a relief, a cry
a sorry passage won't do.

Swallowing
glances,
Blurred through vision,
Shadowed from what's now askew.

Peace, a
luxury unafforded.
Hope, dashed by you.

Shhhh...
The silence is deafening,
A moment you've now gone through.

In order to
avoid a family reunion

You see it
glancing your way
that potato salad winks at you.
Your aunt Ruthie made it…
three days ago.
Now, it stares in a greasy manner
begging for someone to take a bite.
Don’t mind that it’s been sitting there
basking in the hellish sun for over
four hours.

The bugs fly
high, searching for a target.
They need to lay their eggs
and your hair looks like a mansion.
They quietly fly low, make their landing
and inject their gooey eggs deep inside
your arid scalp.
You can’t scratch them away
that’d make you a bad host.
They’ll be born soon and they’ll
soar away, leaving behind a kaleidoscope
of disease and bacteria.

Should you
go, or should you stay home?
If I were you, I’d just say you have diarrhea.

Giving it up

As the chicken fades away

from the butchers last cut

on its carcass that’s just been
chopped,

our love has died.

Nevermore to return

to the lustful depths

of youthful intent.

We were honorably discharged,

like a soldier saying farewell

to the flowerlike grass

of a weed-topped hill.

Our affections hollowed out by

those long nights of

blood and acid tripped exposures.

Our romance began inbowl of pride-filled

pudding-like glitter.

We glistened through the waves

that hid the lies
of your puffed up
secreted torture.

My love for you, like a band,

has stretched to the limits

of a world of ignorance.

My eyes have been peeled,

and the revealing fruit

is not plentifully appetizing

like the yellow outside covering.

My new
lifestyle

Someone
threw my food away.

The tub of
lard I was saving for later,

the glistening fat that shimmered in delight.

It’s only
food-but God it’s good.

That chicken
carcass, already prepared.

It’s seen
better days

but I’m sure
it’s still good.

Is that
mold? I’m just going to say it’s parsley.

It smells
like it’s been in the fridge for a while.

Fridge
smell, a mixture of spoiled milk

and all of
the crusty stuff that collects in the back.

Plants fail
in comparison to chicken,

already
prepared and begging for attention.

What’s Kale?
Why does it taste so…green?

Earthy, like
smelling into a cloud of dirt.

Tofu,
lentils, beans, and quinoa, they all

sound like a
fun night with the butt-trumpet.

They don’t
wink, they don’t nod.

They just
sit in there

waiting…

waiting for
me to prepare them.

Kidnapped

Fear!
You’re a fly, I shoo
you away, but you keep
coming back.

Fear!
My hiding place won’t hide
me well.
I’m a camel with my head
in the sand but ass in the air.

Fear!
Losing the last
marble of my childhood-losing
my actual child, my gift
from the Gods.

Fear!
I’ve fallen into a
glitter-filled bowl of pudding.
I’m stuck in the shimmering lights
that blind me from the exit.

Fear!
My world will change if
your youth is taken
and your candle
is snuffed out.

Hidden
message

It
happened on an average daythe excitement bursting like
stars.It’s late for saving the
begging childwho promptly stomps on fire.

I
mention this to cause a stir-to excite the pot to scorn,

no protection is given to the
innocent-the lost or sacred sheep,from empty hands that sin has
touchedto assault the harrowing
feet,to snuff the precious light,to execute total control.

I
involved myself with the dirty animalwho met me in a dingy bar.

By losing
dignity I lost it all-an oppressive chain now
blooms.My strength has all but left
me.I try and yell with no
success.

This poem is
meant to make no sense
but, does it maybe, to you?

The Sparrow

The little life drains
from the sparrow's
tight throat,
as she cranes her
head to the sky.
She prunes out her clothes,
puffs up her breast,
spreads out her pride,
and...falls.

Down to the feet
that the cobbler protects,
with his hammer, tacks, and cloth.
Down to be mended
with life-giving touch,
and ready to soar anew.